


Absolute Rubbish

by RakishAngle (afterdinnerminx)



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:54:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9884654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterdinnerminx/pseuds/RakishAngle
Summary: This friend of mine (the one whose birthday it is) is a fan of Terry Pratchett and I am a fan of hers. So...the inspiration of this little one-shot came from a little wonder about what it might be like if Terry Pratchett wrote MFMM fanfic.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fire_Sign](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/gifts).



_In the latter portion of the millennium prior to this one, the Kingdom of Great Britannia (KGB) made a play on their rather selfish urge to stake claims on the vast majority of the world. It should be noted that like most countries of diminutive size, they invested in very, very large ships. And once they figured out how to see the sea from over the bow of these vessels, those rascally Brits used them to ship entire populations of people to these new lands according to purpose._

_For the most part, people were sent to gather tea, sugar, spices, and coffee in exchange for slaves in exchange for money; but there were two unique places — each of them quite far away from the mother country. The religious zealots were shipped to some large place in the Northern Hemisphere where they killed millions of people who had the audacity to teach the newbies how to do a proper barbecue._

_However, this particular story doesn’t take place in that first country but the second. And not just because the natives also knew how to host a different kind of barbecue — ones with shrimp and big cans of lager. No. The point of interest for this story has to do with who they shipped to this new country. Criminals. Proper ones and plenty of them. To be exact, one hundred, sixty-four thousand convicts were shipped on a total of eight hundred and six convict ships to a good number of penal colonies sprinkled about the vast land that someone wanted to name (for obvious reasons) Little Brittania. That isn’t to say that the entire country was destined to be populated with the KGB’s idea of cultural vermin. There were investments to create the odd free colony, including the land with latitude and longitude coordinates of_ _37.8° S, 145.0° E, later named Melbourne._

_The free colony’s development was going all going rather swimmingly and soon, people were able to make toast and have indoor showers. However, convicts being convicts have a way of spreading (a bit like Marmite) and before long, this location started to attract its own criminal element._ _By the late nineteen twenties, there were many who would have said the criminals were winning. Little did these rumor starters (or the criminals) know this was all to change._

_One day in the year of our current era nineteen hundred and twenty-eight, a stunning woman in blue disembarked from her steamer ship. This woman’s name was The Honorable Miss Phryne Fisher and in less than seventy-two hours, her bestie would have to perform an urgent bowel surgery; she herself would stumble upon (and later enjoy) a secret stash of cocaine stored in pink sachets; her childhood friend would murder her wholly unlikable husband; her Aunt Prudence uttered the words kumquat marmalade; her hot-but-not-altogether-courageous young Sasha helped put her stockings in the chandelier after dancing a tango; her imminent side-kick Dot went undercover and helped to deliver a baddie in brown paper with string; her future partner-in-definitely-not-crime Detective Inspector Jack Robinson opened a sauna door to find her on her knees, sweating, wearing only a small cotton towel; and she became a Lady Detective, with cards and everything._

_Roughly one year, two months, one week, three days, twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and five seconds after Miss Fisher’s first return step onto Australian soil, the two detectives were undercover working on a case. At the same time, an earnest up-and-coming society photographer clicked a button on a camera, mumbling to himself as he ran into the shadows, “Oh, they’ll never believe this one.”_

_Earlier that day…_

Jack Robinson stood behind and to the right of his partner. The pair of them were in the same uniform of shoddy blue dungarees over button-up shirts with sleeves rolled to the elbows. The inspector’s nostrils flared in an attempt to distract himself from the smell of what must have been copious amounts of bandoline Phryne used to get her hair to fit under her newsboy cap. Jack’s reservations about this mission enlarged when she introduced them with an accent complete with long, overdone a’s, almost blowing their cover, “Hi ya. It’s the Sam brothers reporting for duty. I’m Phlotts and my brother here is Jet.” 

Jack cringed and wondered for the twelfth time why he didn’t put Bert and Cec on this assignment. It wouldn’t have been that hard to bypass the commissioner’s approval. All they needed was a set of eyes on a known pick-up spot. They had the person and the place and, plus or minus half-an-hour, the time of suspected pick up. There was really no good reason to be rubbish collectors for an entire day. Other than the fact that Phryne wanted to drive one of the new rear-loading vehicles.Then again, there was the off-chance (and it was _very_ off-chance) of finding either a secondary pick-up spot for confiscated goods or having THE DRIVER make contact with the suspect.

Three hours later, THE DRIVER made an unplanned stop with a dismissive, “Going to the pie cart for lunch. You can do what you want.” The two refuse-collecting detectives went along with this plan of culinary proportions. They got pie. They ate it. They eye-fucked each other (but only for a moment). And all the while, bystanders sniffed at and avoided them, which was fine by Jack. On the way back to the truck — the very same one that Phryne hadn’t yet had a chance to get behind the wheel of — THE DRIVER ducked into an alley.

Phryne followed him.

Jack grabbed her by the elbow, alarmed because he knew full-well THE DRIVER would be having a piss. She got away from him. He ran after her. There were some things a lady — even Miss Honorable, herself — shouldn’t see. Which was…apparently…the suspect? What was he doing here?

THE DRIVER handed the suspect an envelope.

Jack was just wondering whether to break cover and show his badge when Phryne’s eyes twinkled that nefarious twinkle. She sauntered up to a wall, not too far from the dubious pair speaking in low voices, to undo the buttons at her crotch and whip out one end of a surprisingly realistic pair of…socks? Wrapped around a water pistol? He would praise her ingenuity once they dealt with attracting the attention of the two men who noticed they’d been followed.

“Who the hell are you?” the suspect growled. Then he got a closer look at Phryne who, even without being made up, was stunning. “You got a sister, doncha?”

She tilted her head at him.

“Did a stint at the gentleman’s club?”

“Naw, I don’t have any sisters,” Phryne answered in her Collingwood brogue. Jack broke out in a sweat. _The fan dance_ , he remembered.

“She was Spanish, right?” THE DRIVER broke in, “Remy, this is the new crew. One of ‘em is Pot or something like that and the other is Jet.”

Phryne got the side-eye from Remy the Suspect who said, “Yeah, that’s right,” as if he didn’t quite believe the lack of connection. _If he only knew_ , thought Jack and immediately replaced with the thought, _please, please, make sure he doesn’t figure it out._ Remy the Suspect continued, “Pot?”

“Close enough,” Jack intervened, making a mental note not to agree to undercover names after standing at someone’s mantel for over an hour. Not that it was the mantel that diminished his clear thinking. Not that alcohol alone would have convinced him that using names describing shipwrecks was a good idea.

_Click._

What was that? The two men were already in pursuit of a flying trench coat and a fedora when Phryne took after them, “Ja…Jet…picture!”

By the time Jack caught up to the four of them, the suspect had the photographer’s camera in the air, Phryne was reaching up to try to protect it, and THE DRIVER had his arm cocked and ready to fly. “Not _you_. I don’t know who the hell you are. It’s _her_. The Honorable Phryne Fisher -- in dungarees! I can’t believe I got the photo,” he stammered out, hands up in submission. “It’s not about you. I promise. Please don’t hit me?”

If there was any doubt about the undercover mission being over, this sealed it. The two men turned on Phryne but she was faster and got Remy the Suspect in a headlock, leaving Jack to get THE DRIVER pinned. The photographer grabbed his camera and ran.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“That’s Detective Inspector Jack Robinson to you, Remy. We’ll be taking the pair of you to City South. And, I’ll be taking that envelope that’s in your jacket pocket as evidence.”

Phryne tied up THE DRIVER and Remy the Suspect, shoved them behind the bucket seat with Jack’s help, got behind the wheel with glee, turned the key, and floored it.

_The foursome safely arrived at City South, where our intrepid and altogether stinky detectives gently encouraged THE DRIVER and Remy the Suspect to confess to their heinous crimes (though, for their own health and well-being, they failed to grass up their closest connections)._

_All in all, it was as happy of an ending as possible. If only that were the truly the end of this story. One week later..._

“Phryne!” Aunt Prudence swept past Mr. Butler, scandalized and wearing an oversized doily, when she saw Jack, looked him up and down, and sniped, “This must be your doing, Inspector.” She rolled her r’s along with her eyes and puckered her lips in a grimace.

“Why Aunt Prudence, what a lovely surprise.” An undercurrent of strain hid in Phryne’s voice.

The timing for her visit most likely had something to do with the photo on the front of the society page and the accompanying story that featured House de Fleuri with the younger Fleuri pinning up dungarees made of a cornflower blue crepe de chine and the older Fleuri looking on with disdain. It seemed they had more orders than they could keep up with and a new series of social engagements for their customers to wear them.

Jane floated by in a pair of dungarees in pink and brown floral worsted made by Dot, saw Aunt Prudence, pivoted on her heel, and disappeared into the kitchen. Phryne looked after her wistfully.

“Rubbish men, Phryne? Of all the things…”

Mr. Butler came in with a tray full of puffy while delectables topped with cream and fruit. Phryne pinched the corner of a napkin and slid one of the desserts onto her palm, handing it to her aunt. “Mini Pavlova, Aunt Prudence?”

The elder woman frowned and reluctantly took the sweet. The sugar dissolved on her tongue, her protests going with it. “I’ll put in a call to Mary to make sure she has the recipe,” said Mr. Butler.

Aunt Prudence responded, “Hmmm? Oh, yes. Wonderful idea.”

_That was that._

_The finish._

_Finito._

_The end._

“Well, Jack…”

“Yes, Phryne?”

“Is that the end of this story?”

“I suppose it could be. I assume that you don’t mean to say this is the end of  _our_ story.”

“Of course not, Jack. There are a great many _scenes_ I have in mind for our time together.”

“Oh, I meant to say…”

“Yes?”

“That water pistol.”

“Ingenious, wasn’t it?”

“Actually, I had a suggestion.”

“A suggestion? Go on…”

“If you had used a turkey baster, you wouldn’t have had to pump the trigger.”

“Pump it, Jack?”

“Ahem. Yes. It was awkward.”

“I suppose so. It could have been worse.”

“How so?”

“I could have figured out a way to make it twitch.”

“Twitch?”

“Absolutely. Twitching and quivering - two things to avoid, especially in the field.”

“Phryne…”

“Yes, Jack?”

He sighed, “Never mind.”


End file.
